


In Her Element

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sereda Aeducan returns to Orzammar. Home feelings occur. Zevran can relate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Her Element

**Author's Note:**

> I left the Warden's appearance deliberately ambiguous. I used the default name because I felt I needed to add a name of some sort but that's about it.

There was just something about the way Sereda strode purposefully up to the gates of Orzammar that Zevran couldn’t help but take notice of. Previously, she had been reluctant to lead their little band of misfits (“Alistair, you’re the senior Grey Warden, are you not? Come now, where do _you_ think we should go?”), always asking whatever companions she had with her for an opinion. He had often wondered why, considering she didn’t seem opposed to leadership (she was more than willing to bark commands during a fight, and it was clear she had experience with such things) but had decided to wait and observe and see if her motivations would reveal themselves.

Approaching Orzammar, however, her demeanour darkened, her eyes narrowed, her steps became much more deliberate. She had never said a single thing about her family life, nor much about her past at all, but it was clear that something about returning to the great underground city set her nerves on-edge. The only thing she had told Zevran was that she was born in Orzammar and had only recently left. That was all she had told _anyone_ in their little group. Even Alistair, who had travelled with her longest, didn’t know much about her past.

When asked, she said that it was unimportant, that she had nothing to go home to, and that who she was did not matter. “It’s who I am now that matters, am I right? Well, now I’m Sereda the Grey Warden. And look at all the… choices up here. I’m a _Warden_ , and I can be anything else I like, too.”

She stood tall as she could (which wasn’t saying much, considering she was a dwarf, after all, but the effort was made) and approached the gate guard who was arguing with some humans. After getting rid of them and announcing her title as Grey Warden, she was allowed in, with reluctance from the guard that the group (consisting this time of Zevran, Wynne, and Alistair) did not fail to pick up on.

And they all heard the word from the guard that caused Sereda to flinch visibly. “Kinslayer.”

Still, however, she entered the city purposefully, as if there was no place in the world she would rather be. Not even with the eyes of the guards on her as she passed.  
And just who was she? To cause such a stir amongst the guards? Zevran had assumed she had been kicked from the city (because she was neither merchant nor mercenary and few dwarves left otherwise) but he had put little thought into what she could have done. Kinslaying, though… He hadn’t known her long but he felt he knew her nonetheless and she did not kill unnecessarily. She had spared the life of the assassin who tried to kill her, after all.

Whatever this family member did, it must have been something bad.

He watched her eyes linger over statues of Paragons (ancient dwarven heroes, and of course they would remember their best with stone) a little longer than necessary, as if the guards and their stares were not there. She was ignoring them— no, she walked with the air of nobility. Subconscious though it was, she was above them as far as she was concerned. So, a noblewoman? Zevran honestly would not have guessed with the way she had rammed him with her shield upon their first meeting or seeing her fight with a ferocity he had seen in few but madmen. But then, dwarven nobles were sure to be different than the human ones he saw so much of.

It wasn’t until they witnessed an out-and-out fight in the street (between the the city’s two competitors for the throne, no less, or at least the men who serve them) that he saw her mask slip. Yes, there was emotion to be seen and perhaps Alistair and Wynne would overlook it but Zevran knew Sereda better than the others and he knew since they passed the Paragon statues that she was keeping some feeling back. Her eyes settled on one of the dwarven men as he turned to leave (either he did not notice her or he showed no sign of it) and her eyes narrowed with simple, raw hate.

“Who is that?” he asked, voice low as he stood near enough to hear to whisper. “You look like you have history with him.”

Sereda stiffened. “You noticed,” she said, just as quietly. “Yes. History, you could say that.”

He waited for her to elaborate. The elf had learned by then that simply waiting was all it took to get Sereda to keep going. She sighed. “That’s Bhelen Aeducan. He killed my brother Trian.”

Zevran’s brows rose. It seemed there was a story after all. A glance back at their other companions told him they were in their own conversation so he took the opportunity to prod the dwarf. “Why?”

“The same reason he blamed me for the murder. He wanted the throne,” she said, calm as anything and Zevran couldn’t help but stare at her, but she just went on. “Not that I was a danger… not really. The Assembly might have wanted me on the throne, or maybe not, but we all knew Trian was who my father would push for… I was okay with that. He was rough around the edges but being king would probably be good for him. And the Assembly would keep him in line. Bhelen wasn’t okay with it.”

She trailed off then and Zevran waited for her to go on but she kept quiet, choosing instead to look up at the high ceiling of the city. “Come on,” she said at last as Wynne finally noticed that they had stopped and stepped closer to the dwarf, likely to ask if something was the matter. “Let’s get moving.”

-x-

If Sereda was offended that Lord Harrowmont did not trust her not to be allied with her brother, she did not show it. What she did instead was agree to be his champion in the Provings. Zevran disapproved of this Harrowmont, figuring that one who would hide himself away in his paranoia was likely unfit to rule anything, but Sereda figured that it was highly likely that there were many who were out to get him.

“Dwarven politics are cutthroat. You think the humans get bad? Wait until you get the Assembly at a stalemate.”

It was easy enough getting the dropout fighters to return to the competition (with Sereda’s silver tongue and Zevran’s ability to get into locked rooms, anyway) and the woman was incredibly eager to enter the Provings herself. It was there that she was in her element, Zevran noted, as he watched her slash and bash like she’d been swordfighting all her life (and for all he knew, she had been). 

When she had to ask for another to fight beside her in a later round, Zevran was glad she picked him. They worked well together and she knew it. She would draw attention (because it’s hard to ignore a dwarf slamming into you with a shield almost as big as she is) and the much more nimble elf would slip around behind the dwarven fighters and slip his dagger into the weak points in their heavy plate armour (not deep enough to kill, just to wound, because it was not a fight to the death). Easy. It was always easy.

And he would not deny watching her whenever he could, as he often did while she fought. She was always lovely as far as he was concerned but there was something else there as she breathed in the hot air of her underground home in the first time in what he could tell was too long and then bashed a man upside the head. She was home. She was fighting in her home, for the good of her home.

-x-

When the fight was done, Sereda took her time returning to the Diamond Quarter, taking her time to look around and spending a little coin in every shop they passed, even though they all knew they were fine on supplies. Nobody mentioned that, though, because they knew that she knew it, too.

She didn’t talk about this part of the city the way she had spoken amiably about the Diamond Quarter and Zevran suspected that as the daughter of the former king, she had little time to go there, to meet the people and see the sights (and certainly not enough time to visit the shops, what with the way she stopped in each one and spoke to the merchants as if they were the most interesting people in the world).

When their work for Harrowmont sent them toward Dust Town, she walked briskly, clearly not wanting to linger. The begging casteless seemed to bother her for reasons he could tell she could not place. Because just like many nobles, she had little experience with the poor. Regardless, she was willing to toss a few silvers to them and was even more generous when they finally found someone willing to help them.

-x-

She seemed less at home in the Deep Roads, of course, but she still knew them better than Zevran or Wynne did (and their other companion, Oghren, who had picked up word of their search for his runaway Paragon wife, and whom they had let come along in place of Alistair, knew more than she).

The Deep Roads were nothing but a shell of what was once a part of a vast, noble empire. Collapsed tunnels, spider-filled caves, and more darkspawn than Zevran had ever seen in once place. How the dwarves could live so close to… that was beyond him, truly, but he kept his mouth shut on the manner. That was a rare feat for him, though he had been fairly quiet most of the trip (save the occasional prods at Wynne for fun or opinionated input whenever their dwarven Warden turned to him when a decision had to be made). He was content to watch and listen because he had seen more of Sereda in those past hours than he had on their whole trip previously.

And even if the others enjoyed the silence, it would not last. Once they left the stone city behind them and made their camp for the night, he would be chatty as ever (because Sereda wasn’t the only one he wanted to know; how could he travel with people whose motivations he did not understand, after all?).

Different tactics for different people. Zevran was good at much, from asking the right questions when necessary to speaking much while saying little to knowing when to be quiet and listen. Different tactics worked on different people, his Crow training had taught him that early on. With Sereda, it seemed that he had to listen.

-x-

The group emerged from the Deep Roads after far too much battle for any of them to be comfortable with (“Must we fight the entire Blight on our own?” Sereda had even asked, to no one in particular, as she felt herself become weary, and Zevran had of course responded). How much time had passed, none could say. Sereda said they could only hope they were not too late.

They arrived to see the Assembly was underway and the presentation of the Paragon’s crown (because Caridin was still a Paragon) was enough to sway the vote toward Harrowmont.

And if anyone but Zevran noticed the smugness that threatened to cross the Warden’s face, they did not acknowledge it.

And when the fight broke out (Bhelen would not stand for this, no, not from Harrowmont and certainly not from the sister he had failed to get out of the way), Sereda was unsurprised. She drew her blade and took up her shield less than a second after Bhelen had reached for his own weapons.

The fight was quick but bloody and Sereda was eager to leave after that. With Harrowmont’s promise of troops for the Blight, they had what they had come for. It was time to go.  
She all but ran from the city then.

As soon as they were outside, it was clear she wanted to keep running but Oghren turned his head to the sky and stared like he had never seen anything like it (and, Zevran realised, he hadn’t).

Sereda let a smile cross her features and said, quietly, “The feeling never really goes away, you know.”

And Oghren did not seem to mind that one bit, stealing glances upward whenever he thought no one was looking. Sereda smiled knowingly. Zevran laughed. Wynne pretended not to notice.

-x-

They returned to camp not long after that and Sereda dropped to the ground, exhausted physically from the fight and emotionally from whatever she felt after her confrontation with her brother.

She awoke not long later, however, from the night terrors both she and Alistair were plagued with. “Bad dreams?” Zevran asked, as if it weren’t obvious.

And Sereda nodded, as if it needed conformation.

“Do you want to talk about them?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened in Orzammar?”

“My whole family’s dead,” she said flatly. “One brother killed the other, then I killed him. My father died of illness brought on by the grief of having lost two children— one to murder the other to exile. And of course my mother died long ago.” 

There was a long pause, then she bit her lip. “I’m whining,” she said simply.

“You have a right to whine,” Zevran said with a calm little laugh.

“Maybe. It’s just… not how I expected my life to go. I have no close living relatives and if I return home again, I could get killed. I was only let in because I had to be.”  
The elf smiled, moving closer to Sereda. “Then we are in a similar situation, are we not, my Grey Warden?”

She nodded slowly. They were, they certainly were. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“And remember what you said to me. Your home is still there. It is a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, no?”

Another nod, and a smile this time. “That’s true.”

“And you are needed more up here than you ever were down there. This is the truth. Orzammar will get on fine without you. The rest of Ferelden? I am not so sure about that. After all, the only other Grey Warden around is Alistair. Would you want to leave the fate of the world in his hands?”

“I heard that,” Alistair said, which only made Zevran laugh.

Sereda laughed as well, and it bubbled up inside her, quietly at first before becoming proper giggling (and Zevran found that so endearing).

“There. You look happier already. I knew I was good for something,” he said and much to his delight, she laughed again. “Now, I have told you about Antiva, and what I miss about it. Tell me about the very best parts of Orzammar. We were there on business, and so we did not get to see as much as it as you probably would have liked.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling.

“Wait, I have one question first, though.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“You were really a princess?”

“Surprised? Yes. I was. My father was indeed the king.”

“You don’t act like a noblewoman.”

“And what do elves know of nobility?”

This got another laugh from Zevran. “More than you would apparently think.”

“Dwarven nobility, then.”

“Ah. Very little, on the whole.”

“It’s unimportant anyway. I’m not a noblewoman anymore. Now I’m a Grey Warden.”

“That you are. Now, back to my original question. What can you tell me about the best things in Orzammar?”

Sereda leaned comfortably against the assassin and told him stories of her home and her father and eldest brother and Gorim (leaving out Bhelen, because she felt Zevran had seen enough of “that traitorous nug-humper”) until the two of them were tired enough to go to sleep.


End file.
